


Methodology

by tikistitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean awakens in an alternate universe to find things might not be so different after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Methodology

**Title:** Methodology  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Cas, Sam  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Spoilers up through S8.  
 **Word Count:** 4,500  
 **Summary:** Dean awakens in an alternate universe to find things might not be so different after all.  
 **Notes:** This may be a little creepier than stuff I usually write.

 

Dean awoke with a sharp pain in his neck, his cheek squashed against the Impala's smooth, cold passenger side window, a small line of drool winding down his chin. He yawned and righted himself, belching a yawn and worrying around his neck, hearing the clicks as he moved his head.

“Damn. Not as young as I used to be I guess,” he muttered, looking over at the driver.

Cas was driving.

Wait. Cas was driving?

_OK, what the fuck?_

The wheels of Dean's mind spun, around and around, like the dials on a slot machine. What was this? A djinn dream? Some meddling archangel? A witch's curse? Trickster god? He considered. Seemed like they'd thinned the djinn herd of late, and similarly there weren't a whole hell of a lot of angel bigwigs around anymore. 

Keeping an eye on Cas, who remained silent, gripping the wheel, gaze fixed on the road ahead, Dean glanced around at the back seat, expecting to see his lunk of a little brother sprawled out there. 

_Empty._

“We're almost there,” said Cas, who didn't turn his head. “We're gonna be a little late.” He frowned, his expression turning apologetic. He finally spared a glance at Dean, who had decided to take the advice he had heard not so long ago from a certain meddling archangel. _Play the game._ At least for the time being.

“Uh, that's OK, Cas. I'm sure it'll be all right.”

The edge of Cas's mouth twitched up as Dean watched his profile. “You know Sam.”

_Did he?_ Yeah, Dean supposed he knew Sam. It did explain why Sam wasn't in the car: he was somewhere up ahead, tapping his foot, waiting on them.

They finally reached the place, smack in the middle of fucking nowhere, and Cas eased up on the throttle. Dean wondered how long the angel had been fallen in this reality, as he seemed awfully comfortable there in the driver's seat. The Impala came to a halt next to some godawful abomination of an electric car. Sam's car, Dean guessed.

There was a house, but it didn't look like anyone had given a shit about the structure nor the surrounding property in a dog's age. And there was Sam, standing out on what used to be a stone patio, hands on hips, no doubt clucking his tongue. Yeah, Dean knew Sam, and it looked like this one had come out on the bitchy side. 

“Where the hell were you guys?” asked this Sam in the way of greeting. He remained ridiculously tall and badly needed a haircut. Some Sam essentials, no matter whose universe. He gestured, one long arm sweeping the eastern horizon. “It's nearly sunrise!”

“I'm sorry Sam. It was my fault,” said Cas.

“It was both of us,” Dean quickly put in. “Now, what do you need? And what's with all the modern art, Picasso?” He pointed to what must have once been a fine stone patio. He hadn't seen so many sigils since he and Bobby got the hare-brained notion to summon the angel Castiel so many years ago. Dean's mind drifted. Bobby. He wondered if the old man still existed in this reality? He shook his head, as if chasing the thoughts away. _No._ No wishful thinking: that's how the bastards ganked you. _Clear your head and pay attention._

Sam's face scrunched up into USDA Grade A pissy mode. “We've been over this, Dean! I'm using a crossover design in this sigil test so I can get my paper published.” 

“Aw, I know, Sammy,” said Dean, striding over to give his baby brother a big pat on the back. “I’m just messing with ya.” Sam scowled and wrenched away. Yeah, this Sam got an extra hit with the douche stick.

“Sam's study needs a larger sample size to gain statistical significance,” Cas put in. “Did you read that methodologies paper I forwarded you, Sam?”

“Yeah, thanks, Cas. That was very helpful. I like the way the Rimsky-Korsakov proportional hazard model controls for the standard error of the _blah blah blahdy blah..._.”

And then it was bootstrapping and splines Dean couldn't make heads nor tails so, pretending to study the designs Sammy had splattered all over the patio, he wandered away and turned his back to them, surreptitiously checking the wallet he'd lifted from Sam when he'd slapped his back. He almost flipped when he spotted his little brother's picture ID: _Dr. Samuel Winchester, Assistant Professor, University of Kansas._ Dean stole a glance back at his brother, who was hunkering down beside Cas, squinting at two almost identical devil's trap-looking things painted there side by side while they nerd-bonded.

Dean suppressed a smile, his mind starting to narrate in the movie dude's voice, _“In a world … where Sam Winchester is a college professor, and a fallen angel drives a Chevy.”_ A smile came to his face. Well, there was no doubt Sam could have gone far. But what kind of professor? Did Kansas have a Department of Spook-ology or something? Just how fucked up was this universe?

And how was he gonna get his own sorry ass home?

“So, are we just gonna stand here, or are we gonna go gank something?” Dean slapped Sam on the back again, slipping the wallet back whence it came, and earning another Sammy scowl.

“Dean, we've talked about this. And I don't care what Dad would've done. We're not interfering with the paranormal ecology here, right?”

“We won't banish the spirit, Sam,” Cas assured him. “Dean is familiar with your methodology.”

Dean nearly choked at that last, but wisely kept his mouth shut. He gathered that the weird designs on the ground were some kind of ghost trap, and then was also wise enough to avoid making a Ghostbusters reference, as he intuited that it would pretty much fall flat, given present company. Sam explained that the entity in question manifested as a young female, and it was reportedly fairly benign. 

“If it's not doing anyone any harm, then why are we here poking it with a stick?” Dean asked, his mouth outracing his brain this time.

Sam stood, arms crossed, eyes rolling. “I thought you wanted to gank it?”

Dean shot a glance at Cas who, maddeningly, continued to stare at the ground. “It's nearly dawn,” the ex-angel said reasonably. “That appears to be the time when it favors manifestation.”

Dean once again paired up with Cas and, after gathering up some tools, they made their way into the abandoned house for whatever was supposed to manifest. “So, Sam's a professor,” he told Cas as they made their way through the cobweb-draped corridors. “You ever been to a lecture?”

“No, Dean. Actually, I haven't,” said Cas, who was making generous use of the rock salt shaker.

“You're best buds, right?”

“Sam is my friend, yes.”

“Well then. We should go. Some time.”

Dean had finally struck gold: eye contact. This version of Sam could be annoying, but this Cas was downright freaky. A Cas who shied away and wouldn't meet his eyes was hardly a Cas at all. Whoever was behind this universe obviously needed a smack on the head. “Do you think that's a good idea, Dean?”

“Are you kidding? It'll be great. We can sit in the back row, throw spitballs-”

“I don't know what that is.”

“I'll show you.” Dean’s expression ripened into a grin. “And maybe he's got some hot college girls in his class.”

Dean couldn't quite read Cas's expression: was it disapproval? But it vanished, and he was back to All Business Cas. “This is the room with the highest median EMF readings,” Cas said, pushing on to what looked like a living room. “I think we should block off this door, and then we can herd her towards the front door.”

“She may not be eager to leave,” said Dean, parking his butt on a dusty couch as Cas made the preparations. “They sometimes get attached. Do we even know how long she's been haunting this gin joint?” 

“I take it you didn't read the briefing papers Sam sent us?” Cas asked with a half-smile. Dean shook his head, and Cas sighed. _Teacher's pet._ “The premises have been abandoned for almost a century, but we aren't certain at what point these manifestations began.”

Dean nodded, idly checking around the room. His eyes were drawn to the hearth, where Cas was currently pouring a salt line. “Hey, does anything look funny to you?” He rose and, patting the dust from his pants, approached the fireplace.

Cas was looking his way again. “How do you mean? I don’t find anything amusing here.”

_Good old Cas._ “This place is a dust pit, except for this stretch on the mantle,” Dean explained, taking two fingers to the grime to demonstrate. Cas came closer as well, inspecting the framed photos that arrayed there. Dean picked up one of the pictures: as he had remarked, it was almost free of dust. It showed two girls who looked to be late teenagers, standing very close together next to that very hearth, arm in arm, heads so close they looked to be touching. “Think one of these is our spook?” asked Dean.

Cas was now very close to Dean, almost as close as the girls in the photo, leaning in to peer at the image. “So you believe the spirit is somehow attuned to her own photograph?” he asked softly.

“It's possible. I dunno. But that may be why she likes to hang out in this room.”

Cas turned, just a fraction, his eyes darting up from the photograph to look at Dean. It was like old times again. And then his eyes dropped to stare at Dean's mouth. Dean shivered. “Dean. Your breath.”

Dean was going to make a crack about nibbling on the garlic, but then he saw it too, in the wisps of condensation as Cas spoke. Feeling a chill go up his spine, both hunters spun around to see her, standing behind them, fists clenched, furious.

“Begone!

Dean was pretty sure they were face to face with one of the girls in the picture, only she was a whole lot worse for wear. He grabbed a rusty fireplace poker as Cas went for his pack. “Hey! Stay back. This is iron!” 

“Dean!” said Cas, tossing him the end of the fishing net they'd soaked in salt water. They spread it out and then both stalked towards the ghost. Her face flared in panic, and then she headed for the one exit not blocked by Cas's salt lines. She continued down the hallway, bumping back and forth like a pinball, looking for a non-salty egress. She paused briefly at the threshold to the front door, and then darted outside.

“Bagged her!” said Dean, raising his hand for a high five before realizing Cas probably had no idea. Dean grinned and grabbed one of Cas's hands and slapped it for him. “Old hunter salute,” he told Cas, who nodded solemnly, staring at his own hand. And then, of course, Dean felt a little bad. This wasn't _his_ Cas, but he should probably be nice to the guy. He was trying. “Hey, you think we should go out and grab a big breakfast? Maybe old Prof. Sourpuss out there would even go along.”

Cas was squinting, one of his favorite hobbies. “That might be a good suggestion. You appeared annoyed when we didn't have sufficient time for breakfast this morning,” he mused. Dean realized he would have shared a motel room with Cas. Must have been interesting. 

Cas inclined his head towards back from where they'd come. “I need to get my bag.” Dean nodded and watched Cas walk back to the living room. 

Dean nosed out the door to see what his brother was up to. The unfortunate ghost girl had gotten herself penned up inside one of Sam's traps, and now she was letting loose with a bit of spectral weeping and whining and generally making a fuss. Dean was impressed: in his brief time in the spirit world, he had found it difficult to even perform a little telekinesis. But he figured the chick had had a hundred years or so to practice.

He was already running the instant he heard the thump from within the house. “Cas!” Another thump, and Dean was back in the living room, breathing hard, to find Cas sprawled, bleeding, on the floor in front of another angry spirit. Only this one was bigger and much angrier.

“Let her go!” this girl howled, lunging at Cas.

“Hey, pick on somebody your own size!” Dean boomed. It worked. She changed direction, now hurling herself at Dean. He dropped to the ground, scrambling for Cas’s abandoned nylon bag. He pulled out the shotgun and fired some rounds right through her. “Come on!” he shouted, grabbing Cas under the arm and half dragging him out of the house. They stumbled down the hall and flew out the front door to see Sam standing there, mouth hanging open.

“Dean! What the hell? You know we're not supposed to use the guns!”

Dean ripped the salt container from Cas’s bag and was pouring the remainder over the threshold. “Sammy, there's two ghosts in here! Two! And one of them was gonna kill Cas.”

“What? Oh, shit!” Sam seemed to snap out of it seeing the blood dripping down Cas's face from where he'd cracked his head on something. “I'll go to my car. I've got bandages.”

“So you're actually admitting that piece of shit Prius belongs to you!” Dean yelled after him, causing Sam to wave back an obscene gesture. Hey, maybe this Sammy wasn't so bad after all. He glanced over at the trap, where the ghost girl had now gone quiet. Could ghosts pout? This one sure looked like that's what she was doing.

“You OK, Cas?” asked Dean as Cas touched a disbelieving hand to his bleeding forehead.

“I am perfectly fine. And,” he looked at the ground again, “I don't wish to alarm Sam while he's gathering data.”

“Sam's data will gather itself,” Dean told him, though he thought again how Sam and Cas seemed somehow more in sync here, and wondering why that should annoy him like it did. 

“Dean, that makes even less sense than the things you usually say.” Dean shrugged, but Cas persisted. “Are you … all right?”

“You're standing here, bleeding on the ground, asking me if I'm OK?”

“Are you?”

But Sam for once in his life picked an opportune moment to return with bandages, and they spent the next few minutes tending to the gash at Cas's hairline. 

“You'll have a big macho hunter scar,” Dean told him as Sam applied the bandage. “Impress the ladies.” This merited another confused expression.

“You sure you're OK?” asked Sam softly, holding Cas by the shoulders. Their eyes locked, Cas nodding up solemnly at Sam. There they were, the Geek Brothers.

“So what are we gonna do about ganking those two?” asked Dean, who now felt quite irritated.

“Dean, we've been over this about a million times: _no ganking_ ,” sighed Sam. “That’s not how we do research.”

“Whatever crappy background check you think you did, you were wrong. They're obviously not benign.”

“Dean. If I interfered now, after I've started my observations, the Spectral Apparitions Review Committee would have my ass! I'd lose my research funding!”

“We don't want Sam to lose his grant money, Dean,” Cas urged. “I'm all right.”

“He's all right,” Sam echoed.

Dean looked between Sam and Cas. Co-conspirators, that's what they were. “Sam, we should look for their bones. Something to burn.”

“Dean, just....” Sam took a deep breath. “Can you just wait 'til I've completed my notes on that one?” he said, nodding towards the sulky trapped ghost. “And then you guys can help me release her. And then we'll get you a big greasy breakfast or something.”

Dean's eyes narrowed. “Yeah. You do that.” And then he was stalking away.

 

Dean ended up in the car, feeling much too much like a sulking kid. He needed to find a way out of here, he reminded himself. He sure as hell didn't need to get caught up in whatever squabbles were going on. He was getting fed up with the whole two-against-one tone of this universe. Since when was Cas Sam’s yes man? Is that what somebody was trying to teach him? That his brother and his best friend were basically dicks?

The door clicked as it opened. Dean remained stubbornly staring ahead. “Sammy....”

“Dean,” said Cas. Who was definitely not Sam. “You seem … out of sorts today.”

Dean sulked.

Cas exhaled and leaned back against the seat, gazing out ahead. “I knew it. This is how it always goes.”

Dean looked over to him curiously. “No. Actually, I don't know how it always goes. Tell me how it always goes.” 

“You always want to do things the old fashioned way. Like your father. Like John.” Cas's face edged into a slight smile as he spoke the name of Dean’s father. But then he pressed on. “And Sam has his own methods. So you help him for a while. And then you get frustrated and threaten to quit and … what is it this week? You're gonna go open a garage. And just … be normal.”

“Is that what I said?”

“That's what you said. You were just talking about it again last night.”

“I wanna get out of hunting?”

“Yes.”

“Why do I keep going back?”

Cas turned to face him. “Because Sam asks you.” And then he was back staring out the window. 

Dean paused for a moment. “Seriously? So, in this place, I’m the one who wants out of the life, and Sam keeps pulling me back?”

Cas looked honestly baffled. “I’m sorry. What do you mean by, in this place?”

“Tell me something.”

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean moved around so his body was facing Cas. “So. Let's say I do that. Let's say, I call it quits. I move to some boring small town. I open a body shop. I settle down, drink beer, get fat. And Sammy keeps doing … his professor thing, I guess.”

“All right.”

Dean was quiet. “So, what would you do, Cas?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, would you stick with Sam? Hunting? Or would you, you know...?”

Cas winced. He actually physically winced. And then he reached out for the handle and the door was open, and there – there Dean had his answer. He slumped back against the seat. So that was how it worked, even in Fantasyland. 

He needed to get out of here. Witch or trickster? Which was it? But he couldn’t shake the memory, Cas all bandaged up, Sam holding his shoulders, and them _staring_ at each other. 

The door creaked again. Dean was pushed up against the seat and all of Cas's weight was on him, pressing him back, his lips on Deans lips, and holy fuck! They were kissing and it was weird and rough and, oh yeah.... 

It was sort of hot.

Cas broke it off, leaving Dean gasping for breath. “Every fucking night,” Cas muttered, one fist in Dean’s flannel shirt. “We go through this. Stop it, Dean! Just stop it and buy your fucking garage and just … stay alive. Grow old with me.” And Cas's voice, that angry growl, actually spiked up in pitch on those last two or three words.

“Cas....” But the door was open wide and Cas was gone and Dean was left sitting there with his shirt partially untucked and his hair all messed up on top and no idea about what was up or what was down or what the fuck....

 

Cas still wasn't meeting his eyes when Dean went back to check on Sam and his god damned “data collection,” which seemed to be a whole lot of ticking marks on a clipboard. Cas was also scanning the ghost with some kind of electronic device: it looked like an EMF meter on steroids. 

“Sam, I think this meter needs readjustment,” said Cas, and then they were putting their heads together again on some nerdery. So, in this universe, Sam trapped ghosts and wrote grant proposals, and Cas drove cars and kissed Dean Winchesters. Or had he imagined it all?

Cas glanced over at him, and for one fraction of a second, their eyes met, and Dean knew. _Damn._

He decided to go visit with the sulky ghost. She was sitting in the soft sunlight, arms wrapped around her legs. “I don’t suppose you’d like to volunteer where you left your bones?” Dean asked by way of conversation.

To Dean’s surprise, she spoke. “You don’t understand,” she hissed.

“Try me,” Dean told her.

“You need to let us go. You don’t understand.”

“You wanna get back to your girlfriend? What was it did you in? Suicide pact, something like that?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Look, give me some credit here. Sam wants to send you back. But are you sure that’s what you want? You really wanna be stuck here forever, getting angrier and angrier?”

And that’s when something … changed. Dean looked up, towards the house, and he noticed Sam and Cas doing the same thing. It was like a tone, but just too low to hear. There was a sound of fluttering wings as a flock of geese took off, and Dean swallowed, his heart beating.

“They’re coming,” said the ghost.

“What’s coming?” Dean’s eyes were drawn to the house. Now he heard it: some kind of rustling inside. A fluttering. Like the sound of a hundred leathery wings flapping. Something was stirring. No, many _somethings_ were stirring.

“Dean!” It was Sam’s voice. He looked scared.

Dean’s eyes were drawn to the front of the house, to the salt he’d poured across the threshold. The granules were stirring, vibrating. He pulled out a knife and scratched at Sam’s ghost trap markings. “OK, I’m letting you out.”

She stood up and smiled.

“Too late.”

And then she was gone.

And there were a thousand wings beating, and then a thousand thousand.

“Sammy let’s get out of here!”

And they were all running towards the cars, but there wasn’t time, and they ran right past, pursued, something bearing down on them, running through the field towards the road, they had to make the road. Dean thought his lungs would burst. And Sam was ahead, running hard, and Dean saw him make the roadway, but that’s when Cas tripped, launching up into the air and falling flat on his face and then Dean was on his knees beside him but it was too late and then Dean fell on top of him, shielding him with his body….

 

“Dean!” 

Dean awoke with a crick in his neck. His face was leaning against a cool, rough wall. He shook his head, trying to shake off the spell. 

Sam was crouching next to him, _his Sam_ , holding Dean’s shoulders, face full of concern. Dean looked past him to see an individual lying on the floor, stake through his heart, a sticky pool of red blood soaked all around him. Cas was hovering nearby, his face pasted with a vengeful expression. 

“So it _was_ a trickster god!” said Dean. “That woulda been my guess.”

“Come on, we gotta get you out of here,” said Sam, dragging Dean up with him. “Cas thinks there might be more old gods here. Some kind of nexus. Is that right, Cas?”

“That's correct, Sam. Please escort Dean to a safe distance, and I will lay down the appropriate charms.” Cas indicated a grocery bag full of various herbs and suchlike. 

“That'll gank the suckers?” asked Dean.

“Yeah, it'll gank the fuck outta them,” laughed Sam, which made Dean grin wide. Sam tugged him towards the front door, but Dean hesitated.

“Wait, Sammy. Cas, you'll be OK in here alone?”

Cas, who was already hunched over a dusty old book, a sprig of oleander in his hand, glanced up, seeming mildly confused. “I will be fine, Dean.”

“You sure?”

Cas's face twitched into a very small smile. “Yes. I'm sure.”

“All right. Then let's gank some suckers! Come on, Sam.” 

 

Whether through carelessness or design, the house ended up torched. Dean stood there, along with Sam , just watching it burn away, while the memories of the day came washing back over him. It was a routine salt and burn that ended up not so routine. He’d gone in - perhaps foolishly - alone, but Cas got an “uneasy feeling” when he didn’t return on schedule, so they’d come looking for him. Turns out some minor but nasty pagan deities had taken to using the house for a hangout, and they had been faking the hauntings in an attempt to scare people away. Unfortunately for them, being ancient gods they were too unhip to realize rumors of spirits were exactly the thing to tempt modern teenagers to snoop, and furthermore that missing teens would tend to attract attention sooner or later. 

“Any other survivors?” asked Dean.

“No, unfortunately, you were it. There were a couple of bodies but they were … not in great shape.” From Sam’s expression, Dean didn’t ask any more. “So, did they stick you in a dream or something?”

“Yeah. Typical trickster bullshit.”

“Clowns or midgets?” asked Sam with a smile.

“Actually, you were sort of a dick. Some kind of big shot professor, wheedling for grant money.”

“Oh,” said Sam, who now looked a trifle wistful, Dean thought. “And Cas?”

“How do you know he was even there?”

Sam now looked insufferable. “You were muttering his name when we found you.”

Dean thought about it for a while. “Yeah. Cas was there. And Toto too.”

Sam looked as if he was going to ask another question, but at that point, Cas approached them. “I found this,” he said, handing Dean a photograph. Two girls, standing together by the fireplace, arms linked, side by side. “I kept it. I’m not sure why.” He looked profoundly puzzled.

“You done good today,” Dean told him. “Thanks.” And Dean wasn’t sure, but it looked like an actual blush. The flames crackled, and they all stepped back as the heat increased.

“I should get back. I sort of … borrowed this car,” said Sam.

“Wait,” said Dean. “You actually _borrowed_ a car. I mean, legit?” Sam sheepishly held up a set of keys. A small, pink heart dangled from them. Dean looked at Cas, who shrugged.

“Yeah, you better get those keys back,” said Dean, smile creeping up his face. 

Sam walked off, smirking. Cas made to join him, but Dean extended an arm, holding him back. “Hey, let’s give the man a little privacy.” Cas, as usual, looked slightly baffled, but he nodded. “Here,” said Dean, tossing him something.

It took him a moment. “These are your car keys, Dean.”

Dean inclined his head and they walked off, towards the Impala. “Yeah. About time I taught you to drive.”


End file.
